'Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before. Let your soul take you where you long to be...Close your eyes let your spirit start to soar, and you'll live as you've never lived before.' (Erich Fromm)

Friday, 10 July 2009

SNAPSHOT: The Memory

He jumps up, arches his frame. Fingertips spliced in missile formation, they slice the water first, trailed by the length of his lithe limbs. He hits the water hard and swims for several minutes beneath the silvery surface. His salt-and-pepper hair re-emerges behind the sharp strikes of each arm. Intermittently, his head turns to the left and right with every stroke. The splashes slapping about him create a cacophony of latte foam. His breathing measured; a humming sound matches the rhythm and tempo of successive breaths. As he twists his head from left to right, his narrow streamlined beard offers up the truth of a man in his forties. There is a severe energy in his movement through the pool. As if a legion of purple spirits are soaring through his veins. His motion akin to a man running away from some grave torment, on the other hand, could he be running towards a secret salvation? Under belligerent rays of the flickering sun pouring through the glass panels, his skin glistens with the vigour of a possessed being. On closer observation: his sunken cheeks strain tautly; pale eyes brim brightly, bristling with the tingle of tears and the sting of chlorine. Halfway through this joust, his body jerks, he sputters; coughing desperately as the prickling sensation creeps from nostril to cerebral cavity. He stops trashing and rolls onto his back. His breathing calmer, he closes his eyes, paddling the water with half-cupped palms. He begs silence to fill his consciousness. Instead, his shoulders sag as the memory invades the space which manic adrenalin has kept at bay since entering the wet for his early morning swim. The memory of crescent crimson fingernail fills his mind as he drifts nowhere.

**********

It must have broken when she slipped from the iron railings. While he struggled to hold on, her manicured nails caught his wrist, leaving a pronged scarlet streak above his watch strap. Hanging on to her right elbow with his left hand was difficult. Hang in there, he repeated again and again, as much to himself as to the stranger. Seconds earlier, from a short distance, he spotted the woman in the yellow dress perched on the railings. Swaying from side to side, it was as if she was hypnotised by the sun’s molten basin. Distracted by the sudden shrill squawk of a Welsh seagull, he looked skyward, tripped over a rock and landed on all fours. Wiping off the grit from his denim, a soundless fart hatched, escaped. When he turned again towards the iron barrier, the woman had clear disappeared. All he saw was the glint of yellow cloth tangled in the railings. Picking up his feet – he raced towards the yolk shimmer. When he got to her, the greenest expression of desperation looked up at him as he grabbed hold of her arm. He shouldn’t have done it, she said, punctuating each word with thin gasps.

Ignoring the stones chewing his knees, it wasn’t long before the twinge in his back arrived (an old injury from a motorbike accident). At this point he knew it would soon be over. He couldn’t hold on for much longer. He began to sing a Jeff Buckley tune. Her features softened with his soothing off-key growl. She was a striking woman. In her early twenties, he imagined. His grubby hand started slipping until it clasped her thin tapered fingers. Sweat dripped, large globules falling on her dark dank mane in baptismal splatter. The twinge in his back gained in sharpness. He should never have raced that day. Through dry lips he let out a heavy gauche wheeze.-He shouldn’t have done it, she repeated.He stopped singing.-There’s no one to look after the goldfish, she said next.-What’s your name?-Louise Palmer. But everyone calls me Lou.Again silence. He stiffened, heard the creak in his clavicle. It was as if the weight of the inevitable made her heavier with the passing of time. A tumultuous energy ebbed between the two. A generation apart, nothing connected these two unlikely companions and yet both were linked by circumstance, an invisible membrane of fate.-I should thank you, she interrupted his mute thoughts.-The name’s Ruben Jessop, he smiled, hoping it might give her some comfort.-Thank you, Mr Ruben Jessop, she said, while he curled his thick fingers tight – tighter.

The decision made. Unable to look at the horror blanching her expression he counted – one, two, three, and let go. She let out a shriek which he didn’t hear – couldn’t hear because of the multiple screams exploding within him as he sank to the ground staring at his splayed fingers, overcome with a strange grief. In his furled agony he wondered if she hadn’t been a stranger, if she had been his sister or even a friend, would he have mustered up the strength to hold on for that bit longer. Perhaps it was because he had nothing to lose, his will to preserve a life he had never known had let her down in the end. While these thoughts accused him in the ironic emptiness that now surrounded him, he glimpsed the ruby chapped nail peering back at him.

Honest Scrap Award

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Thank you JOHN (click on the AWARD to enter his AMAZING fantastical imaginary worlds)!

BEST BLOG THINKER AWARD

Thank youLinda and Cynthiafor this wonderful gift! I love the spirit of this award... and I look forward to passing it on soon... please readers do check out these two wonderful blog spaces!

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HUGE THANKS TO REBECCA & GRACE& TRACEY-ANN FOR THE LEMONADE AWARD THEY HONOURED MY BLOG WITH. I HOPE TO PASS THIS ON SOON... in the meantime please do check out their blogs - lots to savour in each!

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HOW TO TURN OFF THE MUSIC...

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About Me

At the moment this BLOG reflects a collage of my musings, poetry, short stories, songs and random thoughts. In as much as blogging is therapeutic for me - as one who struggles with deep depression and issues of self-worth - I want to engage you, my reader, in the adventure that is my LIFE!
Three words that best describe my personality and character are: bohemian, zany, and eclectic - or simply put - MAD. Many years ago someone summed me up by saying that I am: 'a square peg that refuses to fit into a round hole' - or vice versa. I work as a secondary school teacher although I'm an aspiring author and poet. I'm currently undertaking an MA in Creative Writing - which I'm enjoying immensely. In the future (around my writing), I hope to engage in Christian work and social projects that raise awareness and funding for the work of HIV/AIDS.

CONTACT ME AT:

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveller, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference.

Design by Robert Frost

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,On a white heal-all, holding up a mothLike a white piece of rigid satin cloth --Assorted characters of death and blightMixed ready to begin the morning right,Like the ingredients of a witches' broth --A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,And dead wings carried like a paper kite.What had that flower to do with being white,The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?What brought the kindred spider to that height,Then steered the white moth thither in the night?What but design of darkness to appall?--If design govern in a thing so small.

Terezin by Michael Longley

No room has ever been as silent as the room Where hundreds of violins are hung in unison.

Poem (Untitled) by Catherine Mark-Beasant

The sufferer with mirthas his song – has he breathedhis last chuckle, or deaththrown him a lifeline?

Communion by Catherine Mark-Beasant

The ladybends both kneesand eye-balls

the erectionfirst a glanceskyward

measured,her lips embracetransfigured flesh

received throughhollow moistpharynx

Parody on Edwin Morgan's 'A view of things'!

what I love about kangaroos are their hoppity hopwhat I hate about the sunshine is its snarlwhat I love about the Himalaya is its grandeurwhat I hate about fire is its fierce facewhat I love about magazines are their tittle-tattlewhat I hate about religion is its stern poutwhat I love about Harry is his whiskerswhat I hate about Alma is her wrinkleswhat I love about diamonds are their valuewhat I hate about pearls are their ilkwhat I love about poetry is its ambiguitywhat I hate about horses are their hooveswhat I love about love is its truthwhat I hate about hate is its heartwhat I love about hate is its strengthwhat I hate about love is its boundarieswhat I love about Dad is his wisdomwhat I hate about school children is their smugnesswhat I love about Mum is her diplomacywhat I hate about black pudding is its colour, texture, smell, and tastewhat I love about the world is its vastnesswhat I hate about death is its uncertainty and finite naturewhat I love about the sea is its honestywhat I hate about the rain is that it's cold, damp, and wetwhat I love about time is its indifferencewhat I hate about you, friend, is your CD collectionwhat I love about distance is its power to transcendCatherine Mark-Beasant